


the fall

by david (honeydont)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fallen Angels, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:28:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24023614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeydont/pseuds/david
Summary: They find him in the field, under a cart, naked and shivering and experiencing for the first time all the discomforts of human existence. There are two large gashes on his back, seeping blood. He's barely conscious, flitting in and out of reality and his half-remembered dreams like a bird trapped inside a house. Frantic. Wings beating, heart pumping.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9
Collections: Les Mis Big Bang: Quarantine Edition





	the fall

**Author's Note:**

> beta'd by the lovely rapidoxidization!

When an angel is cast out of heaven, they are not sent to Hell. The Devil is sympathetic to those who share his fate, and would be willing to extend a hand. For a cost, of course: kindness is never free. 

No, instead the woebegotten angel is sent to Earth. It might as well be the same. Humans are a sad lot. The earth is always full of their wailing.

What the outcast does from there is their own decision. They might perhaps take the Devil’s proffered hand and become a demon, forever lost in their own rage and regret. They might, instead, seek forgiveness, repent of whatever crime saw them flung into the dirt like a discarded toy, desperate to regain access to Heaven.

Or they might perhaps do neither of those and become something in between.

There are many lonely wanderers upon this Earth, be they human or not. This is the story of one of them.

They find him in the field, under a cart, naked and shivering and experiencing for the first time all the discomforts of human existence. There are two large gashes on his back, seeping blood. He's barely conscious, flitting in and out of reality and his half-remembered dreams like a bird trapped inside a house. Frantic. Wings beating, heart pumping.

His wings. He gropes behind him, a jerky movement that becomes more and more desperate as he fails to find what is is he's looking for. The soft brush of feathers against calloused fingertips. He thinks he feels it, once, and his hand stills. It's an imaginary sensation, a phantom pain.

"Do you think he's a thief?" One of the men in the group who came upon him crouches down, peering under the cart. He shies back, like a frightened animal. It's the middle of the harvest, and these men are farmers, protective of their crop.

"Where would he hide his ill-gotten goods?" Another man laughs, crouches beside the first. "He's not got a stitch on him!"

"Could've eaten it," the first man murmurs, darkly.

"He's hurt." A third joins his fellows. He's much younger, cheeks smooth. "Look, he's bleeding."

"Too bad for him," says the second. "The doctor's away. Not as thought it'd do him any good even if he weren't. No clothes, no money."

"Let's take him back to the house," says the third.

"No," says the first. "We've got a job to do. We can't fall behind in the harvest."

"Are you going to leave a man to bleed to death in the middle of Father's wheat field?" The youngest sounds scandalized. "Show some pity, for God's sake."

The first man stands up. "If he's still alive by nightfall, we'll take him back with us."

The second man laughs again and rises. "Always the pragmatist."

"Better that than the fool or the naïve child." The man's voice fades away in time with the crunch of his footsteps. The second joins him.

The third man remains. Perhaps he's more of a boy. Either way, he knows that he cannot take this stranger home by himself. He must content himself with waiting for the end of the day, for his brothers' help, however much the thought of leaving an injured stranger to suffer rankles at him. "We'll return," he tells the man under the cart who stares back at him listlessly. "I swear upon my mother's grave."

Then he, too, leaves, and the stranger is once more left alone.

He curls up in the dirt like a dog, cold for the very first time in his life. The blood runs slowly down his back, slimy and unpleasant. This man, of course, is a fallen angel, and he has been left with two things from his former existence: an unnatural strength, and all the memories of the things he's lost.

He cries, like he did when they'd stripped him of his wings, feather by feather. Like he did when they branded him, upon the inside of his left wrist. He traces it with the thumb of his other hand now, the whorls of the symbol that meant outcast, traitor, fool. Unwanted. He remembers the fall, the feeling of being pushed backwards out of everything he's ever known, the moment the mental connection to his brethren, his kin, his fellow angels, had snapped, leaving him alone. His head is too empty now, every racing thought echoing off the walls of the vast cavern of his skull.

He remembers the fall, and the tears stop. A sullen expression creeps across his face. What had been his crime? Something minor. Something trivial. He cannot even recall it now, his thoughts and memories swirling around like a tempest in the brain.

The man lies there until dusk. The farmers return, laughing and pleased with their day's work. The cart above him rattles and shakes as sacks are tossed into it. The man stares at the feet of the farmers as they move about. The hems of their trousers are ragged and torn, their boots dusty. One of them drops to his knees and looks beneath the cart. The growing darkness blurs his features until he resembles something frightening. Fear seizes the heart of our fallen angel; what is he to do if these men attack him?

"Still alive, then?" the farmer asks. It is the oldest and his voice is tinged with disappointment. The prospect of bringing a stranger into his home is unappealing, but what is there to be done? He extends an arm, fingers spread wide. To the man beneath the cart it appears as though a monstrous claw is reaching towards him. He bares his teeth in response, snapping viciously. "Christ!" exclaims the farmer, withdrawing with haste.

"You're frightening him," the youngest says, joining his brother in looking under the cart. "Can't you see he's injured? He might not be in his right mind."

"You would ask us to bring a lunatic back to father's house?" Here is the middle brother, laughing again. "My God, Jean! Perhaps it is you who is not in your right mind."

The boy turns to his brethren with a stony look upon his face. "Maybe so. I have a heart, at least. I'm not going to let a man die, stranger or not." He holds his hand out as he speaks, moving slowly as though the man beneath the cart is a wild animal that's been caught in a trap. A creature he doesn't wish to alarm as he frees it.

The fallen angel stills, staring at the hand. He could almost trust this boy. The words of the farmers are meaningless to him, harsh noises in his ear. But the boy seems kind when he speaks. He stretches out hesitantly. The tips of his fingers brush against the boy's, and he shies away once more. He feels wrong, this human. Too fragile. Like his own body, now. Too much blood and bone.

He'd been remade when he was flung into the earth, ripped apart and stitched back together with the stuff men were made of. Breakable bits. Parts that grow old and wither. The man's stomach churns suddenly, and he lurches to the side, spitting bile. It burns. Why does it burn?

The oldest makes a noise of disgust. The boy shushes him. "Don't worry," he says, keeping his hand where it is. "I won't hurt you. Don't worry. I want to help." The words are soothing, sing-song.

A heavenly chorus echoes in his mind as the man wipes his mouth. His lips twist. He makes a decision.

He clasps the boy's hand, imagining for a moment the delicate bones breaking in his grip. The thought horrifies him. He almost withdraws, but the boy is pulling him forward, out from the muck beneath the cart and into the cool hazy air. The man staggers to his feet and shivers. The wounds on his back reopen, blood sludging down.

The oldest circles him, like a predator sizing up prey, and he tenses. "Were you whipped?"

The man simply stares, uncomprehending.

"He's got a brand." The middle one speaks, pointing at the marks on the inside of his wrist. "Perhaps he's an escaped convict."

"I don't care what he is," the boy says shortly, stepping up to the cart and shifting through its contents. He pulls out a thin, dirty blanket and drapes it over the man's shoulders. He does not have to reach up; this man is short.

"He could be a thief, Jean," the oldest says. "Or even a murderer."

"Or maybe he is simply an innocent man set upon by robbers. We don't know."

The oldest shakes his head. "I think Father has coddled you too much." He turns, climbs into the driver's seat. "Well, bring him up if you must." With this, he grabs the man by the hands, hauling him into the cart. The action pulls at his wounds. The carelessness of it is painful. He nods at his middle brother. "Go and fetch the horse."

"Show a bit more care!" The boy follows them. "You might've made it worse." He inclines his head towards the bloodstains blooming across the blanket.

His brother lifts a shoulder. "You wanted him up. He's up." He jumps to the ground as the middle one approaches, leading a horse by its reins. They set about hitching the cart to it.

The boy turns to the man. "I'm sorry. We'll bring you to the house, and I will get you food and clothing and bandages. Are you hungry?" The man shows no sign of understanding, so the boy repeats the question, patting his stomach as he does so. He gives up when that fails to elicit a response. A thought occurs to him then: perhaps this stranger is a mute, or deaf.

The horse lets out a low nicker and the man turns his attention to it, fascinated. The boy watches him. He behaves like a child, this stranger: seemingly helpless, by turns both sullen and curious. The horse makes another noise. The cart jerks as his two other brothers clamber upon it, then jerks again as the horse starts forward.

The trip home is silent. The two elder farmers murmur to each other occasionally, casting glances at the stranger. He ignores them, head bent low and hair falling around his face like a curtain. A shield. The road is rough and pitted, and the cart lurches about like a ship on a rough sea. The boy can see the man grimace through a part in the curtain of hair. His heart twists in pity.

This boy is named Jean, and he is a fortnight shy of seventeen. His mother had died when he was young. Of all of the brothers, Jean was their father's favorite; he was soft-spoken and sensitive, quick to help. This brought joy to the old man and resentment to his siblings. The eldest was Henri, hard-working but surly. The middle brother was Michel, and he was a trickster who was always quick with a laugh, speaking one thing but meaning another. Their family name was Deschamps and they were farmers like their father, and his father before him.

The sun is nearly gone by the time they reach the little farmhouse. The oldest, Henri, stops the horse. It shifts, the leather of its tack groaning.

Jean stands up and exits the cart. "Come," he says, holding his hand out to the man. He takes it after a moment, surveying his surroundings with a certain type of weariness that is at once both wary and resigned. He doesn't know where he is—does this matter? All places on Earth might as well be the same, since he desires to be at none of them. Neither does he desire to be back in Heaven; the sorrow has given way to anger now.

So. He is here now, with these humans. Fine. So be it. The man slips over the side of the cart, clutching the thin blanket tighter about him. The fabric is glued to his back with dried blood. He knows it will hurt to remove it.

"Come," the boy says again, gesturing to the house. He takes a step down the dirt path, then pauses, waiting for the man.

His brothers pause as well. "Leave us to do all the dirty work, eh, Jean?" Michel speaks, a hand on the horse's flank. He is not laughing now.

"I'm going to tell Father what happened," Jean says shortly. "Then I'll return."

The oldest makes a noise of exasperation. "Fine." He waves a hand dismissively. "Try not to frighten him too badly."

The man stands there, observing all this. He cannot understand the words being spoken, but he still knows one thing: he does not like these two. He turns, following the boy. The path is littered with small stones, and they bite into his bare feet. The farmhouse is small and simple; there is another building tucked behind it, most likely for storage.

The fallen angel stops upon the doorstep. He feels as though he is about to commit a grave wrongdoing. What manner of creature is he, to invade a home like this? He should be left outside. Let him sleep outside, like a dog.

Jean brushes past him and opens the door. "Father!" he calls, leaning inside. "We've returned." He steps over the threshold, beckoning the stranger to do the same. He hesitates. To do this is like stepping off a precipice, a shallow imitation of his fall. To accept the boy's help is to accept his new position.

But this boy has treated him more kindly than his fellow angels ever did.

The man enters with a shudder. He imagines for a moment his wings flexing and stretching behind him. The emptiness of the space they used to occupy is a crushing weight. He stops. The boy beckons him once more. The man acquiesces, trailing after him like a lost child.

The boy leads him into a room, low-ceilinged and warm. A fire spits in the hearth. A pot hangs above it. An old man sits at the table in front of it, staring into the flames. This is the Deschamps patriarch; once a strong man, his hands are now too twisted and his joints too stiff for him to do heavy work, so now he often sits and thinks of nothing.

"Jean!" cries he, rising to his feet. "Where are your brothers? And who is your friend?" The old man takes in the naked state of the stranger with an appraising eye, equally curious and cautious.

"We found him in the field," the boy says. "He's hurt. I told him I would help."

"Ah," says his father. "Then I must help as well." He gives his favorite son a fond smile. "Go and fetch him some clothes, boy. He looks to be about the same size as Henri."

The boy darts from the room as the old man bids the stranger to sit. "Come, rest." He points at the table. When the stranger does not move, he pulls out a chair and pats the seat. The fallen angel simply stares at him, perplexed.

"Ah," says the old man again, straightening up and tapping a bent finger against his chin with a cunning look. "Are you asking yourself why I am so quick to let a stranger into my house? Easy. Jean has a good heart, and I trust him. He is a little naive, yes, but still. I trust him. And, after all, does not the Good Lord command we help our neighbors? We all must do as God tells us."

Our man flinches at the name. He turns his head to the side, drawing the blanket tighter about himself in a sullen movement. The old Deschamps does not comment on this. He merely watches.

Jean returns at that moment, carrying a pile of clothing as if it were precious.

"Your friend is not exactly the talkative sort," his father says to him.

"I think he may be a mute," he replies, setting the pile down on the table. He looks at the stranger. "Or perhaps he does not understand French." The boy picks up a pair of trousers and holds it out to the man. "Here. They're for you," he adds when the man once again remains still. "To wear." Jean gestures to his own trousers as he speaks.

The man seems to understand then. He takes the trousers with a quick movement, as though frightened Jean might snatch them away at the last moment. He and his father turn to give him privacy.

The fallen angel struggles with the buttons. The man-made fabric is rough against his skin. Itchy. He thinks of Adam and Eve, hiding their shame. That is him, now. He has done wrong and has been shunned, and will spend the rest of his life toiling in agony.

The simple cruelty of it all makes tears spring to his eyes. He wipes them away with an angry gesture. He looks at the backs of the humans, then at the shirt still sitting neatly folded on the table. He reaches for it.

This movement catches the attention of the boy. "Ah!" He intercepts the man's hand, causing him to jerk away in fright. "Sorry. But you must wait for that. I want to tend to your injuries first." Jean points to the chair. "Sit. Please."

He sits. The old man does the same on the other side of the table, resting his elbows upon its surface and steepling his fingers together. Jean leaves the room again. They sit in silence until he returns, carrying with him some rags and a small basin filled with water. He sets them upon the table, next to the shirt.

Jean takes hold on the blanket wrapped around the man's shoulders. "This may hurt," he cautions, slowly pulling on it. The man's face twists into a snarl as it peels off his wounds, but he makes no noise. The boy lets the bloody blanket fall to the floor, dips a rag into the water, and begins to clean the man's back. Jean is no stranger to blood; he himself has slaughtered animals for many meals and cared for his family's injuries. It does not make him uncomfortable, but the thought that creeps into his mind, that these holes in this stranger's back were inflicted on purpose, does. They go deep into the flesh, the edges raw and red and angry. It almost looks as though something was ripped out.

"Henri says he thinks he may have been whipped," the boy says to his father, continuing his ministrations, pace slow and steady. "I think he may have been set upon. Robbed, I mean."

The old man sucks in through his teeth. "People these days are unkind." He says this more to himself than to his son. "There's tension in the air, boy."

Jean merely nods. His father often talks of politics, and he humors him, but they mean nothing to him. He wipes away the last of the crusted blood, then sets about winding the rest of the rags, simple strips of cloth, about the wounds, tying them tightly. He steps back. "Is that better?"

The man lifts his head. The bandages constrict his shoulder blades and his ribs. He feels trapped, unable to breathe. But it does hurt less. He nods and Jean smiles.

"Good." He picks up the discarded blanket, collects the basin and the used rag. "You can finish dressing now." Then he departs once more.

The Deschamps elder watches him pick up the shirt.

He struggles with these buttons even more. There are too many of them, too small for his large hands. The garment settles on his skin with a clammy touch and he shudders, thinking for a wistful moment of the cloud-gauze robes of Heaven.

"Are you hungry?" The father speaks, startling him out of his thoughts. He looks at him, brow furrowed. The old man leans back in his chair, patting his stomach. "Food. You know? Food. The other boys should be in soon. We'll eat. It's stew. It's good." He tilts his head towards the pot hanging over the fire.

The man slides his eyes over to it. His stomach feels hollow, with a small ache in it, like something is rotting inside. Is this hunger? It's a new sensation. He doesn't like it.

A door opens in the distance. Heavy footsteps sound, trodding upon the wooden floors. The remaining brothers enter the room. "Father," the oldest says. His gaze falls upon the stranger. He recognizes his clothes immediately and his face twists, but he does not comment on it. "Everything is in the barn. The horse is cooled."

"Jean left us to do all the work." Michel pushes forward, hands held up, palms turned to the ceiling. From his voice it is hard to tell if the complaint is serious or not. He, too, looks at the man. "How is our stray? He looks better clothed," he adds with a laugh, jostling his brother in the ribs with an elbow. Henri merely scowls and steps away.

"Hungry, I think." Their father stands. "Supper is ready. Come and help me set the table."

The boy returns while they are in the middle of this task. "Are you done unloading the cart already?"

"With no thanks to you." Michel sets a bowl in front of the man and follows it with a spoon. They're simple, rough-hewn. "And for that you can sit on the floor. There aren't enough chairs." He claps the stranger on the shoulder, who starts. "Since your guest is currently occupying your seat."

Jean looks to his father, settled in his own chair once more. The old man lifts a shoulder. "It's only fair."

"All right." The boy picks up a bowl and brings it over to the pot, ladling a bit of the contents inside. He returns it to the table and repeats the process with another.

When all of them have been filled he sits cross legged on the floor, looking up at his family. Old Deschamps bows his head and folds his hands. His sons follow suit. The man keeps his eyes open during the prayer, staring at nothing. Each mention of God is another knife slid in between his ribs.

The prayer ends. "Go on," the father says, smiling kindly at him. "Eat."

The stranger eyes the bowl in front of him suspiciously. The smell of the stew revolts him; it makes him think of vegetables gone to mush in the ground. Something dirty and impure. But his stomach aches with emptiness, so he picks up the spoon. The taste is nearly as bad as the smell. He puts the spoon down.

"Not hungry?" Michel reaches out for the bowl, a crafty glint in his eyes. "I'll gladly take it off your hands-"

"Michel!" his father exclaims sharply. His son withdraws. "This man is our guest. Be courteous."

"It was merely a joke." He has the look of a cat that's just been splashed with water for misbehaving. He turns back to the stranger. "Do you speak at all, then? Have you even a name?" He laughs when the stranger only stares. "I thought as much. Perhaps we'll give you one, then. Just to make things easier."

"Michel!" Jean objects from the ground. "You can't just name a man as though he's a dog."

"Consider it a nickname, then." He leans back in his chair so he can clearly see his youngest brother. "Since you seem so taken with him, why don't we name him after you? Jean! Ha!" He slaps the table, laughing. "Jean! Voila Jean!" Michel points at the stranger. "Here's Jean!"

"Jean," the man repeats, the name thick and cumbersome in his mouth. The edges are rough. His own voice is unfamiliar. "Valjean?"

Michel bursts into an uproar at this. "Oh! Not a mute after all!" He wipes at the corner of his eye, tears of mirth gathering. "Jean Valjean it is, then!"

The boy Jean glares at his brother, rankled at being teased. He then looks at his father for guidance.

"It's a good a name as any," he says simply, reaching out and touching the boy on the shoulder. "Leave it be."

Jean returns his attention to his supper, a frown still tugging the corners of his mouth down.

The Deschamps patriarch rubs his chin, studying the newly man. "Well," he says after some consideration, "what are we to do with you now? Have you any family you wish us to contact?" Jean Valjean blinks, cocking his head to the side like an inquisitive puppy. "Ah. Perhaps not. Well," he muses again, his examination taking on a critical nature. "We can find work for you, I suppose."

"Not here," Henri interjects, speaking for the first time. "Not on the farm."

"Why not?" the boy asks, voice rising up from beneath the table.

"There's no room, Jean. And we don't need the help, anyway." He turns to his father. "I know a man in Faverolles, not far from here. A tree pruner. He's looking for labor."

"Ah," his father responds. "Hard work, but easy enough. It's simple, isn't it?"

"Very."

"Then bring him to Faverolles." He looks at Jean. "Not tomorrow, I wouldn't think, would you, boy?" His son nods. "Yes. Let him rest first. The day after tomorrow, bring him to Faverolles."

**Author's Note:**

> i'd love to explore this concept more in the future and turn it into a multi-chapter fic! catch me coming back to it in a year or so :)


End file.
